


Schemin' and Dreamin'

by nerdy_farm_girl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Derek Hale, Bisexual Lydia Martin, Canon Compliant, Clothes Sharing, Cuddling, F/M, Facial Shaving, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, Future Fic, Getting Together, Minor Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Past Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore, bed sharing, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 09:45:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5535272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdy_farm_girl/pseuds/nerdy_farm_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Okay Hale, here’s the deal. You’re coming to my cousin Kelly’s wedding with me as my boyfriend of three months. I’ve already printed out an itinerary that includes the outfit you should be wearing. Don’t do anything without my approval.”<br/>Derek closes his eyes, hoping that when he opens them this will turn out to be a dream.<br/>“Pretending I’m not here isn’t going to make me go away, Derek.”<br/>Derek sighs, opening his eyes just wide enough to see Lydia Martin standing in front of him with her hands on her hips. How has his life turned into this? Why is this happening to him? Why do the people he calls his friends consist of college students five years his junior and their parents? Why do all of his so called friends have keys to his loft? Why is he still being roped into their juvenile schemes? Just <i>why</i> everything?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Schemin' and Dreamin'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rjosettes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rjosettes/gifts).



> Written for one of my favorite people in the world! I hope you enjoy this Ellis!! It's a little ridiculous, but then again, what fake dating fic isn't?
> 
> [(also posted on my tumblr),/a>](http://werewolvesandarrows.tumblr.com/post/135920751127/schemin-dreamin)

“Okay Hale, here’s the deal. You’re coming to my cousin Kelly’s wedding with me as my boyfriend of three months. I’ve already printed out an itinerary that includes the outfit you should be wearing. Don’t do _anything_ without my approval.”

 

Derek closes his eyes, hoping that when he opens them this will turn out to be a dream.

“Pretending I’m not here isn’t going to make me go away, _Derek_.”

Derek sighs, opening his eyes just wide enough to see Lydia Martin standing in front of him with her hands on her hips. How has his life turned into this? Why is this happening to him? Why do the people he calls his friends consist of college students five years his junior and their parents? Why do all of his so called friends have keys to his loft? Why is he still being roped into their juvenile schemes? Just _why_ everything?

“Why isn’t Stiles being your fake boyfriend?” He asks. Lydia gives him _the look_ , the one that means she finds him utterly unworthy of her time.

“Because, if Stiles and I had been dating for three months, the entire world, including Jackson, would know about it.” Derek sighs, again. She isn’t wrong about that. Not that she ever is. But why is Jackson even involved in this whole equation? He isn’t sure if he really is deeply invested enough to ask.

“What about Scott?” This gets him another _look_.

“Remember Kira? Cute, kind of naive, wears sneakers and miniskirts, um, a kitsune?” Even the tone of voice she’s using grates against his nerves. “Scott’s uh _girlfriend_? My boyfriend can’t have a girlfriend. In this scenario, anyways.”

“None of the boys at Berkeley up to your standards?” He huffs, this time earning a raised brow followed by a dramatic sigh.

“You weren’t listening at all were you? This is all happening because I happened to tell Jackson that I had a boyfriend a couple of months ago so that he would leave me alone. Well, since he’s a suck up, pain in my ass, he decided to tell my dad that little fact. Which in turn led to my father calling me, for the first time in weeks by the way, and asking about aforementioned boyfriend. Generally, I would just let it go, but its _Jackson_ and my dad, both of whom royally piss me off.” Lydia pauses for a moment, settling gracefully onto the opposite end of Derek’s couch. Red blotches start to appear high on her cheeks, and her hair is falling out of the braid wrapped around her head. Derek thinks this might be the most ruffled he’s ever seen her. “You check all the boxes. You’re single. You don’t have a Facebook. You’ve known me for long enough that I won’t have to teach you about me or vice versa. You’re a werewolf, so you _should_ understand why we need to swap clothes and why I need to sleep here a couple of nights so that we smell like we’re dating. Before you ask, Jackson will be at the wedding. His dad is at the law firm with my dad and my uncle. And finally, you’re good looking enough that neither Jackson nor my father will think you’re _too_ beneath me.”

Derek isn’t so sure if he likes being described as _good looking enough_ for Lydia. Not that he’s particularly proud of his looks. In fact, he usually tries to downplay them. Hence the glasses he doesn’t actually need and the mustache that he’s decided to grow. Just because he knows it will irritate Lydia, he strokes the ‘stache, trying not to grin at the disgust on her face.

“What’s in this for me?”

“You mean besides the prestigious honor of dating me?” Derek’s not sure if Lydia’s joking or not, but the slight curl to her lips suggests that she might be. “I’m going to redecorate this place for you. And I’m going to clean for you whenever I’m home from school.”

“Aren’t you worried you’ll break a nail or something?” She shoots another glare his way for that one, the steel in her eyes almost frightening. “And what if I don’t want to change my loft? Or have it clean?”

“Don’t be stupid Derek.” Lydia stands back up, rustling through her purse and then pulling out a manila folder with flourish. “So, I am home right now because it’s Columbus Day weekend. We need to take advantage of it and go on as many fake dates as we can. That way I can have photographic evidence that we’ve been together. I’ll let you keep that awful mustache for the first half. That way it looks like time has passed.” Derek blinks at her a few times. Should he bitch about her insulting the ‘stache or making him go out with her in public? 

“Won’t Jackson be able to tell that all the pictures were taken on the same day?”

“No.” Lydia huffs, shoving the folder at him before stomping over to his dresser. “Do you really think I hadn’t thought of that? Danny and I designed a program senior year of high school that allows you to change the date and time of events in your cell phone. Text messages, phone calls, photos, emails. Don’t tell anyone, because we could get arrested.”

He raises an eyebrow at her, but she continues to ignore him, rifling through his clothes. Shaking his head, he opens the folder, trying not sigh at the sight of the detailed schedules and guidelines in front of him. Why? Just why?

“Great. Now I’m dating a criminal.” He grumbles, trying his best to ignore the sounds of irritation and perhaps disdain coming from Lydia’s direction.

“I’m taking you clothes shopping for our first date.” She announces after a few minutes. “You’re in dire need of a new wardrobe.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my clothes.” Derek glowers at her. She has some nerve, coming in here and bossing him around like this.

“Honey, these are all the same shirts you were wearing when we were fighting monsters every other week. Most of them are either ripped or blood stained. Plus, I can’t be seen with someone who doesn’t have a sense of style.” She gives him an appraising look, her eyes raking unabashedly over his body. Derek fights the urge to squirm and pout. “You obviously have potential. Let’s go. Bring your credit cards.”

They’re almost halfway to the mall before Derek realizes he never actually agreed to do any of this. Why is he following her around like a damn puppy? Where did she get the right to boss him around as if she was his alpha or something? Why did she have to wear such short skirts? Wait. What?

“I still don’t know why I’m doing this.” He half growls, glowering at the bumper of the car in front of them. Lydia flashes him a frankly disarming smile that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. And he doesn’t think it has anything to do with fear.

“Because you love me,” she smirks at him, reaching across the center console to grip his arm. “Because I’m your favorite even though you act like Kira is. Because I remind you of your sister.” Derek scowls halfheartedly at her, cursing the day that Danny and Stiles figured out what frequency of music would make werewolves feel drunk, but not hurt them. Turns out, Derek is a sappy drunk that floats around telling everyone how much he loves them and why. Including Lydia. God damn it. “You should practice smiling at me. It’s going to have to look like we actually like each other.”

Derek glares as he parks the car, but he moves quickly, hopping out and making it to the passenger side before she can open the door.

“M’lady,” he smirks down at her, but helps her out of the car, thoroughly enjoying the way the tips of her ears turn red for just a moment. Apparently even Lydia Martin has her weaknesses.

“I can’t take you seriously with that stupid mustache,” she hisses, walking impossibly fast in her four inch heels. “You look like fucking Luigi or something. I’m surprised Stiles hasn’t tried to emulate you and grow one too.”

“Is that the first time anyone’s ever opened a door for you?” Derek expertly avoids her deflection through insults, instead holding the door to the mall open for her again.

“No.” Lydia scoffs. She’s not lying, but there’s indignation rippling off her in waves. “Stiles did. Once.” Derek’s silent for a moment, following her through the crowds of people. Lydia may be terrifying, and she has the tendency to purposefully come off as a bitch, but that’s not saying she doesn’t deserve a little chivalry. No wonder she’s so jaded.

Derek considers telling her that, considers explaining to her that she deserves to be treated like a princess just as much as she deserves to act like the queen she is. In fact, he’s just opened his mouth to say exactly that when he’s hit by a wave of the strongest perfume on the face of the earth.

“Oh God, what is that?” he coughs out, ignoring the affronted look on the Macy’s employee’s face and instead glowering at Lydia. Who is grinning proudly. He hates her sometimes.

“I thought we’d pick you out some new cologne?” She replies innocently, even though it’s clear she’s really just avoiding his forthcoming advice. Lydia Martin dislikes emotions just as much as he does.

“You know I don’t wear cologne, _sweetie_.” He bites out, taking a deep breath to keep himself from flashing his eyes at her. Lord knows the sales lady would only be traumatized further.

“Oh!” Lydia forces out a fake giggle, her green eyes glinting evilly. “I always forget about my baby’s sensitive nose. Come on then.” She wraps her talons around Derek’s arm, dragging him further into ~~Hell~~ the store.

“I hate you.” He grumbles, ignoring the blip in his heart beat. “This is stupid. This whole thing is stupid. I don’t _need_ new clothes.”

“Yes, you do.” Lydia comes to a sudden stop, releasing his arm from her iron grip and beginning to rifle through racks of jeans and sweaters. Derek just sulks behind her, glaring at anyone who looks like they might want to talk to them. He tries to give his input once, but Lydia almost bites his head off. How has his life spiraled to this point? It can’t get any worse.

“Is that my little sourwolf?” Just kidding. It can _so_ get worse. “And there’s my strawberry blonde queen! What are you two doing on this fine afternoon?” Derek glares at Stiles, sighing internally when he realizes Scott and Kira ware trailing behind him.

“Why are you here?” He asks blandly, leaning dejectedly against a display of multi-colored t-shirts. The stand started to tip, and Derek stumbles, hurrying to right the whole thing and ignoring Lydia’s unimpressed look.

“They’re here because hypothetically we would have gone on double dates with Scott and Kira, and Stiles would have obviously fifth wheeled because he can’t help himself.” Lydia explains, shoving a stack of clothes into his arms and pushing him towards the dressing room. “Go try these on. I want to see _everything_.”

Rolling his eyes, Derek locks himself in a changing room and dumps the mess of dark colored jeans and various shirts onto the stupid little bench thing in the corner. It smells awful in there, like old sweat and farts and the chemical smell of new clothes. It’s _one_ of the reasons he doesn’t often buy new things. It takes forever for the smell of the factory and all the people who have touched it to fade. Unfortunately, Lydia is pretty much the only person on this earth that he’s legitimately afraid of. She would probably cut his balls off if he didn’t follow orders (and he has no idea if they’d like, heal or not). It’s a blessing, really, that she was immune to the bite. God only knows what she would be capable of with a set of claws and fangs to match.

“I bet she doesn’t even know my size…” He wagers under his breath, scowling when he picks up a pair of jeans and finds that they are indeed his size. Of course. Muttering a string of curses, Derek kicks off his boots and the jeans he’s wearing. He doesn’t see what the big deal is. His jeans are just worn in. It’s not like they’re out of style or anything. At least, they seem like the same kind of thing that Scott and Isaac wear (He’s not even going to consider wearing anything like what Stiles wears. Tight red jeans are a no-no). The new ones Lydia had picked don’t seem all that different either.

“Fuck.” Derek jumps slightly, yanking the jeans halfway up his ass. “My.” He bounces again, trying not to tear the belt loops right off. “Life.” The third jump is the charm, and the jeans slide home, fitting easily around his waist. She did this on purpose. She had too. Derek _knows_ he has kind of a big butt. Laura had made fun of him when she was still around, usually singing I Like Big Butts under her breath whenever she saw a girl looking at him. It’s not like it was _huge_ or something. It’s a nice butt. He has accepted his butt. And then Lydia had to pick out skin freaking tight jeans that he could barely walk in. Cursing under his breath he rips off the almost ratty Henley he’s wearing and replaces it with a stupidly soft blue sweater. He glances at his reflection, cursing more because the stupid thing makes his eyes look almost blue. He _hates_ when his eyes stand out. It’s all anyone could ever talk about. _Oh your eyes are so pretty. Oh what color even are they? Oh I could just get lost in their depths._

“You doing okay in there big guy?” Derek rips open the door to find Stiles smirking at him, not even bothering to hide his enjoyment.

“I hate this. I hate all of you. I hate everything.” Derek hisses, stomping as best as he can out into the waiting area. “These pants are too small.” He directs the last comment at Lydia, who is regarding him with interest.

“They are not, that’s how they’re supposed to fit.” She smirks, smacking a firm hand against his ass. “If you got it flaunt it baby.” Derek’s ears get hot as Kira and Stiles dissolve into giggles. Thankfully Scott knows better than to laugh, but he is still smiling.

“Fuck all of you. Seriously.” Derek tries to hunch into himself, hating the attention they are drawing.

“Oh, get over yourself Hale.” Lydia waves a perfectly manicured hand in front of his face. “These are good, go try on the next set.” He flashes his eyes at her out of spite, before half running back to the changing room. At least in here, no one’s looking at him.

This goes on for another half hour, until Derek reaches the bottom of the pile. He glares at the pair of dark gray dress pants, willing them to burst into flame. He can’t _remember_ the last time he’d worn anything other than jeans or sweatpants. Probably because he hates dress pants.

“Lydia!” He whines, already shucking off the pair of weird khaki colored cargo pants he had on and replacing them with the dress pants. “Why are there dress pants and a button down shirt here?”

“Because we’re going to a wedding genius.” Lydia’s voice comes from the other side of the door. “I have a tie for you too.” Derek holds in a yelp as the door swings open, fighting back the urge to hold something in front of his bare chest. Not that he has anything to be ashamed of, but still.

“I don’t like ties.” He mumbles petulantly, glowering at her through his lashes as he hastily buttoned up the wine colored shirt. Lydia is suspiciously silent, just watching him with wide eyes as he shoves the shirt tails into the waistband of the pants. He freezes when she steps into his space, standing on her tip toes and flipping the collar of the shirt up against his neck. She knots the tie with what seemed like begrudging efficiency, her gaze never lifting from his chest.

Derek fights back the urge he to rest his hands on her waist and bury his face in her neck. Something about this moment, breathing in each other’s air and the softness of her hands when they brush against his chin, is frighteningly intimate.

“Well. I think you’re passable.” Lydia smooth’s her hands across his chest, finally turning her chin up to face him. “Once we get rid of that damn mustache.”

“Lay off the ‘stache lady,” Derek hisses, ignoring the faint sense of disappointment that the moment was broken. “I won’t shave it if you keep it up.”

“Please, I will do it while you’re sleeping.” Derek raises a challenging brow at her, annoyed with the knowing look on her face. “Don’t think I can do it? I’ve knocked you out before.” She looks smug, even though Derek knows she still feels guilty about _that_ whole episode.

“Will you two stop flirting so we can go eat! I’m starved.” They both jump when Stiles yells, and Derek has a feeling he’s not the only one flushing pink under the collar. Lydia turns away before he can look, but her heart’s beating faster than it had been before. Then again, so is his.

Glowering at his reflection, Derek yanks at the tie and hastily strips out of the fancy clothes. It’s a relief to have his perfectly worn jeans and shirt that smell like himself and home back on. It’s even better to dump the jumbled pile of clothes on the checkout counter, smiling widely at the clearly annoyed salesperson. Listen, if Lydia’s going to drag him around a mall, he has to find enjoyment in being an asshole somewhere. Right?

 

“What do you want, _pumpkin_?” Derek tries to act like a normal boyfriend, his hand pressed lightly against the small of Lydia’s back. Stiles, Scott and Kira can’t stop giggling at the table in the corner, trying to hide behind their heaping cups of frozen yogurt. He’s so engrossed with glaring at the trio that he almost jumps out of his skin when Lydia nuzzles her head against his chest, one arm wrapping around his waist.

“You pick, we can share.” Her voice is soft, but her eyes are hard as they flick towards the counter. All three of the shop’s employees are staring at them, expressions ranging from embarrassed to right out lewd. Derek can’t help but smirk slightly before lowering his head.

“I think they’re hoping we’ll have sex right here.” He murmurs, pressing his face into the curve of her neck and ignoring Scott’s coughing attack in the corner. Lydia smiles against his chest, her body almost melting against his.

“Come on babe, let’s get some yogurt.” She lifts her head and winks at him before taking his hand and dragging him towards the yogurt dispensers. Derek purposefully blocks out every instinct inside of him screaming that he should lick a strip up the side of her neck and claim her right here in front of everyone. She isn’t even _his_ for God’s sake. Instead he allows her to fill up a cup with cake batter ice cream, only half watching as she piles on strawberries and raspberries and mini chocolate chips. When she reaches for the chocolate sauce, Derek grabbed her wrist, stopping her.

“You don’t like hot fudge,” he murmurs, not exactly sure _how_ he even knows that.

“Yeah but you do.” Lydia replies. Derek can’t help the genuine smile that pulls at his lips. He probably shouldn’t be so thrilled that Lydia knows something so small about him, but he can’t help himself. The tips of her ears start to turn red as if she realized she’s revealed too much.

“Put it on half,” he instructs quietly, gently releasing her wrist. She huffs and does as he asked, her heart skipping a few times before slowing back to normal.

Stiles is outright grinning by the time they sit down. It’s annoying, is what it is. Derek just wants to smack that smirk right off his face.

“I can’t believe I never noticed how _perfect_ you two are for each other!” He announces gleefully, sticking a spoon overflowing with chocolate and marshmallow sauce into his mouth.

“You’ve got hot fudge all over your shirt… and your face.” Lydia hisses, primly scooping a strawberry and the perfect amount of frozen yogurt onto her spoon. “It’s like you’re five years old.” Stiles leans back in his chair, seemingly unperturbed as he dabbed at the mess on his t-shirt. His smirk only widens when Derek glowers at him, his excitement and what might be curiosity almost tangible. It’s absolutely terrifying.

“I can’t wait to talk to Cora about this little development.” Giggles slip out around each word he speaks, bubbling happily from his stupid mouth. “Oh it’s going to be ah-may-zing!”

“We aren’t actually dating Stiles.” Derek growls, stabbing his spoon angrily into the frozen yogurt he’s sharing with Lydia. “There’s _nothing_ to tell her.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he fucking winks, and Derek briefly considers kicking the back legs of his chair out from under him. “I may not have super wolfy senses, but I have _awesome_ detecting skills. It’s hereditary I think.” He smirks. “Just like my pops.”

Kira’s entirely focused on her ice cream, looking close to tears. Scott might be been praying, his face turned up towards the ceiling as he leans back in his chair.

“Your father is a respected and valuable member of the community. You,” Lydia kicks at Stiles’ ankle, causing him to flail and tip wildly in his chair. “Are a menace to society.”

“Yeah!” Derek agrees, halfway to sticking his tongue out at Stiles before he realizes what he was about to do. Stiles’ smirk just grows impossibly wider as he continues to eat his yogurt, eyebrows dancing in a way that made Derek want to smash something. Like his head. On the table. Repeatedly. He glances down at Lydia, who for some awful reason, decides to smile at him almost shyly. Before he can stop himself, Derek smiles back, but the moment breaks with the flash of Stiles’ phone camera. The idiot’s grinning like he thinks he _won_ , his proud smirk melting away when Lydia snaps her fingers at him and demands that he send the picture to her.

“I need evidence that we’re dating,” she explains haughtily, taking another delicate bite of frozen yogurt.

“Oh I can get you evidence,” Stiles smirks proudly, obviously ignoring the way Scott is currently hiding his face in his hands. “I can get you a big old pile of evidence. That’ll be like, my official role in this relationship. Stiles Stilinski: Martin and Hale Relationship documenter. Ha! I’ll write a biography about you guys, complete with pictures. It’ll be called… The Goddess and The Sourwolf: A Love Story. I’ll be famous! Come on Der, give Lyds a little smooch so I can take your picture. Pucker up big guy!”

Derek just stares at Stiles flatly, concentrating fully on the illusion that kissing Lydia was something he had _never_ considered. Which he _hadn’t_ of course. The whole wanting to lick her neck a few minutes ago thing was totally an anomaly, ok? He doesn’t like her like that. And the fact the Scott is watching him between his fingers and smirking like the dumb little asshole he is, is not helping matters in anyway. Derek curses his stupid heart beat and wills it into submission, continuing to stare at Stiles. It doesn’t take long for Stilinski to feel awkward, his fingers fumbling for his abandoned ice cream as he almost tips over backwards in his chair. Derek cracks a smug grin in response, feeling a sick sense of accomplishment when Stiles finally topples over and proceeds to flip him off from the floor. Success is sweet. Short lived (Lydia’s giving him one of her annoyingly disapproving looks), but still a victory in Derek’s book.

 

\------

“What are you doing?” Derek frowns at Lydia, watching curiously as she meticulously snips the tags off each item of clothing they’d purchased.

“Are you blind? What does it look like I’m doing?” She doesn’t even look at him as she speaks, her voice steady and quiet, apparently well aware that he can hear her no matter what. He cocks his head as she tosses several new pairs of jeans into the washing machine, followed by what looks to be a couple of her own dark colored sweaters.

“Are you just using me as a laundry mat? Is that what this is about?” He teases lightly, trying not to let his lips curl when she rolls her eyes.

“I need to smell like you Derek. We’ve been over this.” She sighs in a put upon way as she pours laundry detergent in and starts up the wash. She scoops one of the (many) bags she’d brought with her that morning off the floor and lugs it towards the couch, collapsing with the most feminine grunt he’s ever heard onto the cushion beside him.

“Why are you washing my new clothes?” Derek’s not an idiot. He knows that most humans don’t feel the need to wash their newly purchased clothing before wearing it.

“Why are you asking me so many questions? Haven’t you met your word quota for the day?” Lydia snaps, pulling what appears to be some kind of math textbook out of her bag with more force than necessary.  She flips it open to what Derek suspects is a random page, her knuckles turning white as she grips the pages a little too hard. Her heart’s racing, and Derek can sense frustration boiling beneath her skin. A few deep breaths later, it’s gone as suddenly as it had appeared, her fingers unclenching as she flips to the questions at the end of a chapter.

Deciding to let it be, Derek returns to the small block of wood he’s been staring at for the past hour. When most of the pack left town for college, he had been suddenly faced with the realization that he was pretty much alone. Sure, he watches the Seahawks with the Sheriff and Parrish on Sundays, and every so often Melissa would drop by with a casserole or a batch of cookies, but he is essentially separated from his pack. It was terrifying. Still is, really. He’s a grown man, and he’d come to rely on his teenaged alpha and their rag-tag pack more than he’d realized.

Rather surprisingly, Chris Argent had been the one to suggest Derek find a hobby. The man had probably gotten annoyed with Derek’s constant lurking and asking around about any supernatural going-ons that he could get himself involved in. It was embarrassing. But he was so _bored_. It took a few tries, but he’d eventually found his passion in woodworking. The first thing he’d made was the very same coffee table the Lydia was so rudely resting her feet on. He could still remember Kira and Lydia’s squeals of delight when they visited him during their first Thanksgiving break, both girls running their hands in almost a reverent manner over the smooth wood. Stiles and Scott had been impressed, and there was no missing the _pride_ in Scott’s eyes when he looked at Derek. And he was hooked.

Two years have passed since the table, and Derek has gradually worked up from filling his pack members’ homes with his projects to actually making them to order for the locals. He’s still getting used to actually having to _speak_ with strangers (even though Kira manages most of that for him from college, _thank God_ ), but it’s good. Nice even. (He is still not talking about the anonymous article that he’s 99% sure Stiles submitted to the Beacon Hills Gazette about him. He’s going to get that little twerp back one of these days).

Christmas is coming, and Derek has decided that he is going to make something for each of his pack members. He has a pretty good idea of what he’s going to do, but sometimes he just needs the inspiration to hit him. Which is why he’s been staring at the block of wood on the coffee table for the past hour.  

Beside him, Lydia squirms slightly, adjusting her textbook and notebook on her lap and leaning forward in a way that can only be described as uncomfortable. Shaking his head, Derek reaches for the worn copy of the third Harry Potter book he’d borrowed from Stiles, shifting so his back is pressed to the arm of the couch and one leg is curled in front of him, his shin pressing against Lydia’s thigh. She shoots him one of her disdainful looks before returning quickly to her homework. Whatever. Derek rolls his eyes and begins to read, trying to get back into the book. He’s barely made it through one page before Lydia is shifting again, sighing like the world was ending. He glares over the top of the book at her, giving up when she won’t even look at him. Whatever.

The third time she starts squirming around, Derek decides to take matters into his own hands.

“Jesus Christ, you’re acting like Stilinski.” He growls, slapping his book down onto the coffee table. “Come here.” Lydia lets out a quiet sound of protest as he wraps an arm around her waist, dragging her into the V his legs made. He pulls her up against his chest, and then manhandles her legs until her knees were pulled up. “There,” he grumbles, moving her notebook so it rests easily on her thighs. “Stop squirming.”

Lydia seems to be frozen for a moment, but Derek ignores her, reaching for his own book and resting it on his bent knee. He realizes belatedly that he probably should have vocalized what he was doing a little more, and maybe he should have asked permission first. But Derek has never been particularly good with words. And he has definitely not been all that good at expressing his desire for touch. Born wolves were naturally tactile beings. Simple claps on the shoulder and hands brushed down an arm are soothing and warm and make you smell like pack. Scott tries, and he taught the actual wolves in the pack, and it works. They all feel better for it. But Derek sometimes forgets that the humans don’t always respond the same way. He begins to panic, wondering how if he can even get himself out of this situation. Should he push her away? Should he climb off the couch? Should he press his face into her hair like his instincts are telling him to?

And then suddenly Lydia relaxes into him. Her shoulder blades press against his chest as she curls into a more comfortable position, her scent warm and content. Trying not to make his relief obvious, Derek returns his attention to Prisoner of Azkaban, ignoring the voice inside of his head (that sounds an awful lot like Stiles) comparing himself to Professor Lupin. Just because they are both werewolves doesn’t make them like blood brothers or something. _Shut up_ _Stiles_!

 

“You’re smooth Hale, I have to give you that.”

Derek begrudgingly looks away from his book to find Lydia staring at him, her head leaned back on his shoulder. He just quirks an eyebrow, not quite dumb enough to protest. She would only run with it. “I mean, if you wanted to cuddle, you could’ve just said so.” He follows her gaze to where his free hand has come to rest on her stomach, his thumb lazily tracing circles across the thin material of her shirt.

“Does it bother you?” Derek asks, not stopping the movement of his thumb. He already knows the answer to that question. It’s obvious in the relaxed curve of her body, the slow and steady rise and fall of her chest.

“Well no…”

Derek smirks slightly and returns to reading. He really thinks he relates more to Sirius Black than Remus Lupin, to be honest. Maybe he needs to bring that up to Stiles. Not that he really wants to get into an all-out Harry Potter themed debate with him, but there will probably be some entertainment value there. He pretends not to notice when Lydia tosses first her textbook and then her notebook onto the floor. He doesn’t dare move when she begins to shift against him, turning onto her side and curling into a little ball. When she lays her head over his heart though, he can’t help but smile.

“Tired Red?”

“Shut up,” she grumbles, her lips catching on the fabric of her t-shirt. “Shopping with you is exhausting.”

“You’re exhausting,” Derek smirks, even as he wraps his arms around her.

“Mature.” She mumbles, snuggling even closer to him. Derek huffs a laugh into her hair, trying not to think about how nice this feels, how natural. He wonders why it even matters. Lydia is his friend, of course he’s comfortable with her. There’s nothing wrong with that. There’s nothing wrong with falling asleep either. So that’s what he does.

 

He wakes up a few hours later with a mouthful of red hair and his hands pressed against soft, warm skin. In those few groggy seconds before reality hits him, he curls closer around the little body tucked up against him, letting his fingers drag across skin. A little content hum drifts up from beneath the mane of red hair, Derek’s head clearing in an instant as he realizes exactly what’s going on here. Lydia arches against him anyway, her heartbeat still sluggish with sleep as Derek practically rips his hands out from where they’ve migrated up beneath her blouse.

“Carry me to your bed,” she mumbles as she rolls over, somehow still demanding even with her eyes half lidded. There’s a crease on her right cheek from the couch cushion, her hair is frizzing and her eyeliner is smudged, but Derek has never seen anything so beautiful. The realization hits him like a freight train, blasting a hole right through his chest.

It’s not that Lydia Martin being beautiful is something _new_. He knows it, Lydia knows it, and everyone knows it. But finding her beautiful when she’s sleepy and messy and frankly, not perfect, that is a Big Deal.

“ _Derek_ ,” she whines, burying her face against his chest.

God. This decision to _fake_ date her is probably the worst one he’s ever made. And he’s got a _long_ list of horrible decisions. He briefly considers telling her to walk her own ass over to the bed, if only to keep up the illusion that he doesn’t have _any_ feelings, of any kind, ever, but the need to keep holding her in his arms wins out. Instead he gathers her against his chest and stands, stumbling slightly over the blanket at his feet.

He fully intends to tuck her in and return to the couch, purposefully not crossing any boundaries. But Lydia fist his shirt in her hand a hold on sleepily asking him to stay. Her eyes blink open, all hazy green and pleading, and it’s not like he can say _no_.

“Come on and cuddle me big guy,” she smirks softly, scooting across the bed before pressing her face into one of his pillows.

“I’m not sleeping fully clothed,” Derek threatens, although he knows it’s not going to scare Lydia.

“Good,” she mumbles, fumbling with the waistband of her skirt. “Gimme your shirt.” 

He’s frozen, watching as she kicks off her skirt and it flutters prettily to the floor, her blouse following soon after. His eyes are drawn back to her like magnets, lying in his bed wearing only a bra and underwear, hand stretched towards him expectantly. He wants to touch her, wants to know what her skin will feel like against his own, want to see how perfectly their legs will slot together, how her curves will match up with his dips. Instead he averts his eyes and rips off his shirt, staring determinedly at the floor as he hands it too her. “Lighten up Der,” she laughs, but he doesn’t look up, listening intently to the sound of fabric sliding across skin.

He wants until she’s settled to take off his jeans, unable to stop himself from noticing the bra that’s joined the skirt and blouse on his floor. His throat feels tight, and he feels like he’s fifteen again, giggling about boobies.

Lydia’s watching him from beneath his comforter, expression calm but her eyes sparkling with amusement. She keeps quiet though, eyes fluttering closed as he slides beneath the blankets with her. Derek feels awkward, unsure of what to do with his hands and how he should lay and what she even wants from him. Lydia just shakes her head and rolls over, scooting back until she’s just barely touching him. She reaches for his hand and pulls his arm around her, placing his hand carefully back against her stomach, although this time with a layer of fabric separating them.

“The thing you were doing earlier feels good,” she admits softly, sighing when he starts moving his fingers in slow circles. She smells amazing, like green apple shampoo and honeysuckle and _him_. He wants to bury his face in the crook of her neck, to breathe in the scent of _Lydia_ where it’s pure. He settles for pulling her a little bit closer and pressing a kiss to her hair, letting the gentle sound of her breathing lull him to sleep.

 

The next morning is surprisingly easy. There’s no awkward conversations, no avoided eye contact, or muttered excuses.  Lydia’s already in the shower by the time Derek wakes up, which is both alarming (he’s a werewolf, he should have heard her) and well, terrifying (because this means he feels way too safe in Lydia Martin’s presence). Derek makes her breakfast and pretends to be annoyed with the list of fake dates they’re going on today, ranging from a trip to the beach to going to the movies to having a fancy dinner that night. The only part Derek’s actually kind of annoyed with is the fact that some of the pack members will be joining them for parts of it.

He’s sure he’s giving himself away when they take pictures together, too adoring, too happy, too much color in his cheeks to be anything but interested. Stiles looks all too smug when Lydia comments on how great of an actor Derek is, how he’s _actually_ doing a good job. Derek is sure he’s blushing from his ears to his chest, but Lydia’s too busy examining the photos to notice.

The worst part of the day is when Lydia insists they go back to the loft for a “wardrobe change”. Initially, it makes sense, they need to be wearing different clothes is at least some of the pictures. But then Lydia’s grabbing his arm and dragging him into his own bathroom, and locking the door behind them.

“What are you doing?” He instinctually covers his mustache with his hand, eyeing the electric shaver she pulls out of the medicine cabinet.

“It needs to go Derek,” she snaps, pulling at his wrist. “I can’t kiss you with a caterpillar above your lip.”

“I was wondering when the kissing was going to come up.” He grins at her from behind his hand, amused with the faint flush rising high on her cheekbones. It’s like he’s sixteen again, feeling this undeniable urge to tease the pretty girl that’s glaring at him. “Come on, don’t knock it till you try it Red.”

He’s not expecting her to lean in, not expecting the gentle press of strawberry lip gloss coated lips against his own, or the slick slide of a warm tongue across his bottom lip. Her eyes sparkle when she pulls back, his wrist trapped against the counter. “I don’t think that was fair,” Derek mumbles, valiantly ignoring the heat radiating from his ears.

“Oh you liked it,” Lydia sighs, patting his cheek affectionately before picking the electric shaver back up. “If you _really_ don’t want me to shave this monstrosity off your face, say it now or forever hold your peace.”

“No, go ahead.” He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, holding in a sigh when small, cool fingers curl around his chin. The shaver buzzes to loud in his ears, but Lydia’s gentle touch soothes him, and he leans into it slightly, grinding his teeth as the shaver comes into contact with his skin.

It’s over in minutes, but Lydia places a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. She fills the sink with warm water and pulls shaving cream and a razor out of the medicine cabinet. “Think of it as a trust building exercise,” she says in response to his raised eyebrows. Before he can even formulate a reply, she slathering shaving cream over his cheeks and jaw and down to his neck.

“I can do this myself you know,” he grumbles, reaching for the razor. Lydia’s nimble fingers grab it before he can, and then she’s straddling his thighs, all warm and sweet and too close. This is intimate, far more intimate than the dressing room yesterday, and more intimate and domestic than Derek’s ever really been with any of his previous partners.

“I’ve always wanted to do this,” Lydia murmurs, hand trembling as she lifts the razor to Derek’s cheek. Normally he would roll his eyes and ask her why she thought he'd be a good person to try this out on. Instead he curls his fingers around her quivering wrist, rubbing soft circles on the underside with his thumb.

“I’ll heel,” he murmurs, guiding her hand back up to his cheek. She smiles at him, easy and open and unguarded, and suddenly he’s struggling to breathe.

Lydia is oblivious, smile lessening but never disappearing as she takes her first stroke with the razor. There was no need to worry, like everything else Lydia does she’s perfect at this, her strokes sure and steady and even. Derek’s hands curls around her hips, keeping her steady in his lap. He forgets sometimes how tiny she is, how he could probably lift her with one hand if he wanted to. She acts like it’s no big deal when she asks him to tilt his head back so she can shave his neck, but he hears her heart skip a few beats when he complies.

He supposes he should feel vulnerable, he’s had enough people take advantage of him that he should probably be wary of baring his throat to someone wielding a razor blade. But beneath it all he trusts Lydia, and he knows she would never hurt him, not like this anyways.

“You should let me pluck your eyebrows.” Lydia’s smirking at him as she pulls her hand away, switching the razor for a warm wash cloth. She doesn’t seem to be in any rush to get up off his lap, if anything pressing closer as she wipes up the remaining shaving cream.

“Leave my eyebrows alone,” Derek growls, tipping his head back without being asked so she can wipe his neck. She’s still smirking at him when their eyes meet again, one hand resting on each shoulder.”

“You know,” she muses, tapping her fingers along the round of his shoulder. “I think I need to kiss you again.” Derek latches onto ‘ _kiss you_ ’ playing it over and over again in his mind. He’s nodding without thinking about it, tilting his head and parting his lips, dragging Lydia flush against his chest.

She kisses cautiously at first, and Derek images she’s charting each of his reactions to everything she does in her head. Her fingers pull at his hair and her teeth nip at his bottom lip, pulling before soothing with her tongue. Derek’s jeans are starting to get tight when she pulls back and actually fucking winks at him.

“Yeah, definitely better without the mustache.”

Derek doesn’t move as she climbs off his lap, fighting to keep himself from chasing after her and slamming her up against a wall. His chest is heaving and his dick is hard and he wants to taste every inch of her skin.

He’s so, so screwed.

“Come on, we have more dates to go on!” She yells from somewhere out in the loft, her high heels clicking across the hardwood.

Derek sighs and covers his face with his hands. Yeah. He's screwed.

 

Lydia sleeps in his bed with him again that night, this time stripping right in front of him, only turning her back to take off her bra and pull on one of his shirts. Derek hides in the kitchen for a solid hour before following her to bed, using the alone time to will down his boner. This is supposed to be fake, he’s not supposed to actually want to date her. Or like, eat her out until she cries. And she has to know what she’s doing to him, there’s no way she can be oblivious to the power she holds in her perfectly manicured hands.

She clings to him when he finally joins her, head pillowed on his bare chest and arm slung across his waist. Prior to this, he wouldn’t have guessed she was a cuddler, but the way she’s curled around him suggests otherwise. Unless, of course, this is all part of the fake dating thing. His heart sinks just thinking about it. Is it so selfish to want someone like Lydia for himself? She’s smart and capable and beautiful and loyal, and she can make him laugh without even trying. He’s comfortable sitting in silence with her, the thump thump of her heart beating enough to lull him to sleep. He should probably tell her now, tell her this is a bad idea. But when he turns to say something, she’s already asleep, eyelashes fanned across her cheeks and pouty lips parted. She snuggles closer when Derek runs a hand down her back, and in that moment, he knows he’s going to go through with this anyways.

 

Lydia leaves the next morning with a bagful of his clothes, and a draw in his dresser filled with hers. She instructs him to text her back once in a while, and to call her on Wednesday night between 6 and 8. _Apparently_ good boyfriends call their significant others more than once a week, but she wanted to start him off easy.

It’s… better than he expected it to be, this whole communicating with Lydia thing. She texts him when she arrives back at school, and he entertains himself by sending her all of the heart emojis he can find at once. But they continue to text almost constantly, talking about her school and his woodworking projects and all the usual gossip about the pack. He calls her on Wednesday as promised, surprised to wake up in the middle of the night to Lydia’s soft breathing still coming down the other end of the line. He starts calling her more after that, if only to hear the sound of her voice. They talk about childhood memories and favorite colors and things they’re allergic too. They talk about their parents and their friends and the supernatural, and sometimes about the future. In the back of his head Derek knows this is all fake, that Lydia probably only wants this information incase Jackson decides to give her a pop quiz or something.

The weekend of the wedding comes faster than Derek expects it too. He had spent Thanksgiving with the pack, and the weekend with Lydia, going on dates that didn’t really seem so fake anymore.

He finishes his presents for the pack not long after Thanksgiving, all of them hidden in a box beneath his bed. After much deliberation he’d decided to carve them all wolves, each matching their personalities. Scott’s is the biggest, sitting on its haunches regally with its tongue hanging out of its mouth. Stiles’ is rolling around on its back, feet kicking in the air. Malia’s is howling at the moon and Liam’s is growling, teeth bared. Kira’s is, well, a fox, mouth open like its laughing. Lydia’s is the smallest, curled up delicately with its tail covering its nose. It fits neatly against the wolf he’s made for himself, and together they look like they’re peacefully sleeping.

It’s pathetic really, but even more so is the fact that he can’t wait until Christmas to give it to her. Her wolf is small enough to make into a necklace, so he attaches an eyelet to it and buys a thin silver chain, threading it through.

“Derek!” Lydia yells through the bathroom door, banging on it with her fist. “Come on, you’ve been in there forever! I need to do my make up!” Derek sighs and muses his hair, picking up the little wolf from where it’s sitting on the counter.

“I have something for you,” he announces as he opens the door, swallowing hard at the sight before him. She looks stunning, hair falling down her back in long curls, body wrapped in a tight little purple dress. Derek’s hands itch to touch, to cup her breasts and curl around her waist, to squeeze her ass and drag her up against him. “Um.” He blinks rapidly, trying to focus. “You look uh, you look beautiful.”

“Thank you!” She spins slowly for him, his mouth going dry. He’s fucked. So, so fucked. “You said you had something for me?”

“I uh, yeah.” Derek holds out his hand, waiting until she mirrors the action. He drops the wolf into her palm, retracting his own sweaty hand quickly. “I um, I made different ones for everyone but I wanted you to have this - you don’t have to wear it - I mean, it doesn’t really-” Lydia silences his uncharacteristic babbling with a raised eyebrow, slipping the chain over her head without question. The wolf settles perfectly between her breasts, the chain glinting delicately against her neck.

“Thank you Der,” she murmurs, curling a hand around the side of his neck and kissing his cheek. Derek knows he’s blushing, can’t do anything to stop it either. “I love it.” She smiles at him one more time before sliding past him and into the bathroom. Derek can’t move for a moment, busy committing the touch of her lips and her words ( _love, love, love_ ) to memory. He wants to follow her into the bathroom, wants to put her up on the sink, want to kiss her lips and her neck and her chest, wants to know what her little breathy sighs sound like, wants to know if she’d scream or sigh or shout his name when she comes.

Instead he shakes it off, and goes to find his jacket. It’s going to be a long night.

 

Jackson’s suspicious from the get go. Or at least, that’s how he tries to play it off. Derek can tell that he’s jealous and maybe a little threatened. He’s watching them like a hawk from across the table, brow furrowed just slightly. Lydia’s dad seems to buy it, reminiscing loudly about how he knew Derek’s mom back in the day. There’s probably permanent indents in his thighs from Lydia’s nails, but she doesn’t show the tension elsewhere. She’s playing the part of girlfriend convincingly well, at least for Lydia Martin. She’s not clinging or touch starved, leaning into Derek every now and then, whispering barbs about Jackson into his ear. She smiles when he brings her drinks, everything about her radiating contentment and pleasure. Derek’s not sure how she’s able to control her chemo signals so well, but it’s impressive nonetheless.

“You’re going to have to dance with me,” she whispers, when Jackson disappears to the bar.

“What do you mean?” Derek growls, palms starting to sweat. “I don’t dance.”

“You do now.”

She stands and tugs on his arm, glaring. “It’s even a slow song, you can handle it.” Derek would throw a fit if he didn’t think it would cause a scene. So he follows her out to the dance floor, curling his arms around her waist. Lydia surprises him by tucking her face into his neck, her breath hot and warm against his skin.

“I don’t believe it Hale.” Derek tenses, following the sound of the voice to Jackson, sitting alone at their table. “She wouldn’t ever date a screw up like you.”

“She dated you.” Derek mutters, tightening his hold on Lydia subconsciously. He presses a kiss to her hair before sweeping it to the side and pressing his lips to her neck. Lydia actually shudders, swaying closer to press flush against him. Derek doesn’t know if it’s a game or not anymore, but he goes with it when Lydia tilts her chin up, eyes dark and heated. It makes sense to kiss her, to nip at her bottom lip and curl his fingers in her hair.

“Ha!” He vaguely hears Jackson laugh bitterly. “Lydia _hates_ when guys-” Derek blocks him out and tugs Lydia’s hair, gently, grinning against her mouth when she moans softly. She pulls back and stares at him for a moment, cheeks flushed and eyes so dark he can barely see any green. He holds her gaze as she curls his tie around her hand, leading him off the dance floor.

As soon as they reach the darkness of the hallway Derek kisses her, pushes her up against the wall and lifts her up until her legs wrap around his waist. She tastes like rum and coke and kisses like whiskey, leaving a trail of burning warmth in her wake. Her fingers tug on his shirt, pulling it out of his pants so she can slide them beneath it, cool against his heated skin. Derek moans softly and pushes her dress up over her hips, plucking the waistband of her lace thong between his fingers.

“Bathroom,” Lydia pants against his neck. “Come on, I wan’ you to fuck me.”

Her voice crashes over him like an icy wave, bringing him back down to earth. This isn’t real, Lydia doesn’t really _like_ him. She’s physically attracted to him, but Derek needs more than that right now. He’s so into her it hurts, and it wouldn’t be fair to her.

“You’re drunk.” He forces a laugh and lowers her to the floor, pulling her dress back down over her hips. When he brings his gaze back up, Lydia’s watching him shrewdly, her head tilted slightly to the side. Her lips are kiss swollen and her hair is mussed, and Derek wants nothing more than to kiss her for the rest of his life.

“I’m really not,” she says slowly, stepping around him. “But I guess I forgot what we were here for, anyways.”

Derek watches her walk back to the wedding with blank eyes, his heart hammering painfully in his chest. He feels sick, his heart heavy and a cold sweat breaking out across his brow. Imagining that Lydia has feelings for him too would be so easy, would take this pain away and bring warmth back to his chest. But he _knows_ Lydia, knows she’s never been anything but upfront about what she wants, especially when it comes to relationships. And she’s not afraid to tell anyone anything they want to know about her sexual relations. There was that one memorable pack meeting when Stiles made the mistake of saying that Lydia didn’t know how difficult girls were because she’s never dated one. Lydia had just grinned and gone into great detail about the girl in her sorority who she hooked up with every now and again. Derek wasn’t the only one with pink cheeks and smelling of arousal after that.

Derek steps into the bathroom and splashes cool water on his face, staring at his reflection in the mirror. If he was brave he would just tell her how he feels. Lydia would be into that, would appreciate someone who is just as upfront about what they want as she is. But Derek’s always considered himself a coward, and this circumstance is no different. He’d rather just avoid the inevitable rejection all together.

 

They end up leaving the wedding not long after. Lydia is uncharacteristically quiet, but Jackson seems satisfied that they might actually be dating now that Lydia’s visibly pissed at him. Her father shakes Derek’s hand when they leave, insisting that they watch a game together and have some beers. Derek smiles and fakes it, suppressing a shudder at the thought of watching a game with anyone other than the sheriff and his pack.

 Lydia is silent the whole ride home and she climbs out of the Camaro before Derek can open the door for her. She stalks up the stairs and into his loft, stripping out of her dress in an eerily controlled manner. It hurts a little when she pulls a t-shirt out of one of her many bags that smells like Scott and pulls it on, marching off to the bathroom in silence. She still climbs into bed with him, but she doesn’t snuggle up against him, apparently content with the good six inches between them. Derek drifts off to sleep anyways, the scent of her still strong enough on his pillow to ease his mind.

Derek wakes up the next morning to an overwhelming feeling of wrongness. The bed beside him is cold, and he can’t smell or hear Lydia _anywhere_. He sits up warily, glancing around at his freshly cleaned apartment, any hint that Lydia had ever spent time there gone. The washing machine is even going in the corner, and he just _knows_ that it contains all of his clothes that she had been wearing. He stumbles out of bed and towards the coffee maker, frowning at the note sitting on the counter in front of it, written in Lydia’s bubbly handwriting.

_Thanks for all your help._

_-L_

 

Derek crumbles it in his hand before he realizes what he doing, hurriedly smoothing it back out on the counter. It’s impersonal and not nearly enough, but Derek brings it over to his bedside table, slipping it into the draw full of movie ticket stubs and photos and other little keepsakes. He wants to know when he’ll see her again, wants to know what she’s so mad about, wants to know if he’ll be able to kiss her again. He could text her, or call her, but suddenly the easy way they’d been communicating over the last two months seems impossible.

So he mopes.

He mopes so hard that Scott calls him from school, in the middle of exams, worried about him. He insists that he’s fine, that Scott doesn’t need to worry. Scott lets it go, but Derek knows it’s not over. Scott never actually lets anything go, as much as the alpha likes to think he does.

Derek doesn’t leave the loft for three days, content to wear the same ratty sweatpants and stained t-shirt and watch three seasons of The X-Files back to back. By day three, the food delivery people are starting to give him funny looks, probably because he’s still wearing the same clothes and hasn’t taken a shower since… well, he can’t really remember? But what does it matter anyways, Lydia _hates_ him, and she was the only person he really wanted to get cleaned up for. She doesn’t want him, not like that, so what’s the point?

 

“Wow, this is worse than I thought.”

Derek leaps off the couch, stumbling over empty pizza boxes as he spins around, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. Malia’s standing by the door with her arms crossed, lips lifting into a smirk.

“What are you doing here?” Derek growls at her, hastily dropping the blanket he realizes he’s clutching to his chest. Fuck.

“I lost rock paper scissors, so apparently it’s my job to get your head out of your ass.” She grumbles, kicking a half-eaten bag of Doritos out of her way as she marches towards him. “I’m pretty sure Stiles cheats.”

Derek instinctually steps back from her, earning himself an unimpressed glare that looks eerily like Lydia’s. Just thinking about her makes his chest tight, and Malia’s expression instantly softens.

“Come on Der,” she says, grabbing his arm. “Go take a shower, and then we can have a conversation that neither of will be comfortable with.” Derek frowns down at her. “What, I don’t like talking about emotions either, but _apparently_ you need to.” She pushes him into the bathroom and yanks the door closed.

He listens to her walk away, boots barely making a sound as she moves. It sounds like she’s neatening up, but after a moment he realizes she’s just eating his food. He can’t help but smile to himself, sighing as he pulls his shirt off and tosses it towards the hamper in the corner. He does smell pretty bad, he realizes, as he strips off his sweats and turns on the shower, stepping under the warm spray.

He feels much better by the time he’s done, the weird haze that had been filling his brain dissipated. It still hurts thinking about Lydia though, even though it really shouldn’t. They weren’t actually dating, so it’s not like she _knew_ she broke his heart.

Derek wraps a towel around his hips and steps out of the bathroom. There’s a loud squeak from the couch, and Derek whips his head around to find Kira with a hand slapped over her eyes, flush spreading across her cheeks.

“Sorry Ki-Ki,” he laughs, getting dressed quickly. Malia’s attention hasn’t even left the TV, shoving handful after handful of Doritos into her mouth.

“This show is so good,” she mumbles when Derek comes over. “Is there really aliens? I need to talk to Stiles about this.” Kira and Derek share a fond look, and Derek starts to feel even better. At least Lydia’s friends aren’t pissed off at him too.

“What’s going on with you and Lydia?”

Okay, maybe not.

Kira’s watching him carefully, her knees pulled up to her chest. Derek shrugs and looks away, picking a blanket up off the floor and folding it.

“I dunno…” he mumbles, moving on to picking up the trash scattered across the floor.

“They’re both idiots.” Malia offers matter-of-factly, her eyes still focused on the TV. For a moment, Derek thinks that maybe she’s talking about Scully and Mulder, but then she turns her head and catches his eye. “If you wanna mate with her, you should just tell her. She can’t smell it like we can.” Derek’s cheeks start to heat as soon as she says the word _mate_ , and he has to fight the urge to cover his eyes with his hands.

“Oh my god.” He can’t believe he’s having this conversation with _these two_ of all people.

“Malia,” Kira scolds, smacking her leg. “I thought we were working on the bluntness.” Malia shrugs and pauses the TV, crossing her legs neatly on the couch.

“Derek needs to hear it. If he’s too dumb to realize it for himself, _someone_ needs to tell him.”

“Oh my god,” Kira sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Derek,” she says carefully. “Lydia… I think that Lydia really likes you.”

“She wants to fuck him.”

“Malia!”

“She told me. She’s had dreams about peg-” Kira slaps a hand over Malia’s mouth before she can finish that sentence. Derek’s ears are burning and he has to turn away, pulling deep breaths of fresh air in through his nose. Just the idea of Lydia pegging him (because that’s definitely what Malia was going to say) has his insides feeling all squirmy and his dick chubbing up in his pants. He thinks about Scott’s gym bag still sitting in the back of Stiles’ jeep, about old Mrs. Warren who knits him scarves, about that time Cora tried to make gravy out of bacon grease. He manages to will his boner down, only to turn around and find the two girls watching him, clearly amused.

“Lydia likes you a lot.” Kira repeats gently, eyes earnest and bright. “You know just as well as I do that she could’ve asked any guy from school to be her date to the wedding, played him off as her ‘boyfriend’ who she really only hooks up with. Instead she had this whole elaborate scheme that essentially gave her a reason to spend time with _you_.”

“You guys smelled like you were fucking every time she was home,” Malia offers, grabbing another handful of Doritos. “That was totally unnecessary just to trick Jackson.” She sneers around his name, but Derek doesn’t miss the slight flux in her scent. She wants him. Derek holds back a grin and files that information away for future blackmailing purposes.

“You need to go talk to her.” Kira says it like a suggestion, but it sounds more like an order. “It’s almost Christmas, we should all be together and happy. Especially you and Lydia.”

Derek sighs and looks between the two girls, Malia with his now almost empty bag of chips, Kira watching him eagerly.

“How am I even going to do that?”

They grin at him like they’ve been waiting for that question all morning.

 

Two days later, and Derek finds himself parking on a street lined with giant white houses, each of them decorated with a combination of Greek letters which are apparently supposed to mean something. Derek is sure that if the _Kate_ and the fire hadn’t happened, he would have lived in a house like this, surrounded by guys like him, jocks with parents that have too much money. He would have been the actual worst.

He climbs out of his car and heads up the front walk towards the one Lydia lives in, the porch decorated with white Christmas lights and red bows. He’s more nervous now than he ever has been, heart beating too loud and too fast and his palms sweating. He wipes them hastily on his jeans before he knocks.

Socked feet running follow the sound of yelling, and then the door opens just far enough for a pair of deep brown eyes to regard him suspiciously through the crack.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Lydia… Martin?” The brown eyes narrow even more, flicking up and down his body obviously.

“Damn that girl has good taste.” The door opens a little more, revealing freckles and wild dark curls. “You the one that made her that wolf necklace?” Derek nods, and the door opens all the way. “I think it’s weird that someone like Lydia like _wolves_ , but she won’t take that thing off. My names’ Jesse, come on.” Derek blinks a few times but follows Jesse inside, trying not to show his awe at the size and beauty of the house. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two,” Jesse continues as they climb the stairs. “But if I hear one more Avril Lavigne song, I’m going to ship her cute little ass back to Beacon Hills myself.”

Jesse leads Derek down a hallway littered with laundry and red solo cups. Everything smells strongly of perfume and vodka and slightly of baby powder, and Derek knows he’s going to have to fight back the instinct to bury his face in Lydia’s hair and drown it out. Jesse stops outside of the door on the end, turning to face him fully. They glare up at him with their hands on their hips.

“If you don’t fix this bro, we’re gonna have problems, you got it?” Derek nods seriously, hoping Jesse can see the commitment in his eyes. “Good. There’s condoms in her bedside table.” Jesse winks at him before sauntering back down the hallway, disappearing into one of the rooms at the other end.

Before Derek can knock the door flies open, revealing a very disheveled, and very surprised, Lydia Martin. Her hair is in a messy knot on the top of her head, and she’s wearing yoga pants and a baggy t-shirt that he vaguely recognizes as his own.

“What are you doing here?” She snaps, jaw setting in that defiant way of hers. Derek was supposed to talk, was supposed to say something beautiful, was supposed to confess his feelings. Kira (and Scott, over Skype) had coached him through it, giving him advice on what he should and shouldn’t say. But just the sight of her dashes it from his mind, leaving him with nothing but the desire to kiss those plump lips, to taste her mouth and feel her soft skin beneath his hands.

So he does it, curling one hand around her jaw and leaning in. He takes his time, watching her eyes and giving her time to pull away, before his eyelashes flutter and their lips meet. She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him back, warmth and electricity surging all the way down to his toes. They walk back towards her bed, Derek kicking the door closed behind them.

Lydia spins them around and pushes him down on her bed, climbing on top of him and pinning his hands above his head.

“This better be real Hale,” she growls, ducking in to kiss him again, tongue teasing against his lips. “You need to tell me what your plan is right now.” She pulls back and glares at him, her chest heaving.

“I want-” Derek swallows hard, embarrassed with how wrecked his voice already sounds. “God, I want you Lydia. I want to wake up with you in my bed, I want to cook you breakfast and take you on dates, I want to kiss you on Christmas morning and New Year’s Eve and… and for the rest of my life, really.”

Dread slides down his spine, cold and slimy, when she doesn’t say anything, eyes wide and lips parted. But then she smiles, that wide and happy one that makes Derek’s heart stutter in his chest.

“Good’” is all she says, lips warm when they press against his. Derek smiles against her mouth, one hand pushing up beneath her shirt, pressing her closer against his chest. “You finally gonna fuck me?” She hums into his mouth, back arching as she grinds down against him.

“Well when you put it like that…” He teases, slipping his other hand down the back of her pants and dragging her impossibly closer, the friction against his dick better than good.

“Stop talking and take off your clothes,” Lydia demands, but he can feel her smile against his skin. He obliges anyways, rolling her gently off him so he can stand up and strip out of his clothes and kick out of his boots. Lydia’s watching him from her bed, eyes lidded and dark, biting her lip as she slips her hand down the front of her pants.

“Let me,” Derek murmurs, surging back towards the bed, peeling her shirt off and tugging on the elastic waistband of her pants. Lydia drops back and lets him doing as he pleases, cupping her breasts in her hands. “You’re a menace,” he huffs as he finally drags off her pants and panties in one sweep, revealing those legs that’ve been starring in his dreams. He wraps his fingers behind her knees and pulls, dragging her up off the bed so her legs hook over his shoulders. The little moan she lets out makes his dick jump, but it’s nothing compared to the way she arches when he buries his face between her thighs.

He’s always enjoyed giving oral, whether it’s sucking dick or eating pussy, but in this moment, Lydia tastes and smells and reacts better than anyone before her. She’s unafraid to grind against his mouth, her hands tangling in his hair and swears falling out of his mouth. Derek finds her clit, lapping at it until she starts to squirm.

“Derek, I need… I need…”

Derek knows exactly what she wants, but he’s not going to give it to her, determined to make her come with his mouth alone. He slips a little lower, nose still brushing against her clit as he pushes his tongue inside of her, grinning when she cries out. Her legs are starting to shake on either side of his face, so he soothes them with his hands, licking his way back up to her clit and sucking, _hard_. She starts to chant his name under her breath, thighs tightening around him and fingers pulling his hair, just on the good side of painful.

Derek realizes belated that he’s had his eyes closed, and he forces them open, looking down her body to find her watching him. One hand his twisted in the sheets, knuckles white, and every muscle in her body is trembling with need.

“Lydia,” he murmurs, stroking a hand down her thigh. “Come for me.” He’s surprised when she shudders and arches, hands tightening in his hair. He’s suddenly aware of how painfully hard he is, cock dripping.

After easing her back down onto the bed, he crawls up her body, pressing soft kisses to her thighs, her belly, her breasts. Her hands settle around the back of his neck, tugging him the rest of the way until their mouths meet, lazy and hot. Derek’s considering rubbing himself off in the crease of her thigh, keyed up enough that he could probably come within seconds, but Lydia’s reaching for his dick, mouth falling open as she strokes it.

“Derek,” she sighs his name, guiding his cock towards her wet heat. “I’m on birth control,” she announces, voice steady. “You don’t need a condom.” Derek can’t help but laugh at the forceful way she says it, like she thinks he’s going to fight her on it. Which, well, he might, if he couldn’t hear the truth in her heart beat.

“So romantic,” he hums, waiting until she scowls up at him to push inside. He buries his moan in her shoulder, arms already shaking at how _good_ she feels, warm and wet and intense around him. “This isn’t going to last long.”

“So romantic,” Lydia parrots back, but she trails off into a moan when he thrusts, the scathing intent of her words completely lost. “I can’t - _oh_ \- I can’t believe we’re doing it missionary our first time - _fuck_ \- so - _god_ \- vanilla.”

Derek just smiles against her throat, returning to sucking what he knows will be a giant hickey into her skin. He’s trying to keep his thrusts controlled, but he’s already speeding up, the creaking of her bed increasing in volume.

“You seem to like it just fine,” he mumbles, reaching one hand between their bodies to press gently at her still sensitive clit. She swears loudly and tightens around him, and Derek’s hips jerk on instinct, one, two, three times before he’s emptying himself inside of her.

 

Derek wakes up an hour later, Lydia laying half on top of him, their thighs and the sheets around them a sticky mess. She’s tracing patterns across his chest, huge green eyes trained on his face. She smiles when he awakens, her chin digging into his ribs.

“You’re very attractive, you know,” she says quietly, lips quirking in the corners. “Biologically speaking, you’re the ideal mate.”

Derek feels himself smiling, reaching out to stoke a hand over her hair. “I knew there had to be a reason you liked me. Biology it is.”

Lydia smirks and climbs more fully on top of him, his dick already fattening up as she settles on top of it.

“Jesse texted me to say they went home for the holidays,” she says nonchalantly, running her hands up and down his chest. “We have the house to ourselves…”

“Yeah?” Derek reaches for her, pulling her down so he can kiss her. It’s already becoming second nature, the way their bodies fit together like they were meant to be.

“We should take advantage of the shower down the hall.”

Derek’s moving before she’s even finished the sentence, picking her up and climbing out of bed in one smooth motion. He tosses her over his shoulder, slapping her ass when she starts to yelp. Lydia stills almost instantly, her hands cupping his ass as she hangs upside down over his back.

“So…” she hums, squeezing his cheeks softly. “How do you feel about pegging?”

Derek promptly runs into a wall.

He suspects they’re going to be anything but vanilla.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!   
> you can find me on [tumblr](http://werewolvesandarrows.tumblr.com) ♥


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